“Hmm.” Tony rubbed his chin and I heard the bristly sandpaper sound that meant he hadn’t shaved that morning.
“The Egyptian wing is roped off,” he said. “They’re adding some new pieces. But they shouldn’t be in there today. The boss lady is at a conference, and nothing in this museum moves without her.”
“Do you think I could go in there and sit? I promise not to touch anything. I just need a quiet spot.”
After a brief frown of consideration, his brows drew apart and he smiled. “All right. Just make sure you’re careful. Stay out of view of the tourists, or they might get the idea to follow you in.”
“Thanks, Tony.”
“You’re welcome. Come back and see me again when you get a chance.”
“Will do,” I said, and headed toward the special-exhibitions exit, then turned back, “Hey, Tony, there’s an old woman over by the photography exhibit. Can you check on her in a little while? She’s been there a long time.”
“I will, Miss Lilliana.”
“Bye.”
I sped past the wall of photographs and headed downstairs to the main floor. The Medieval Art and the Hall of Cloisters, full of tapestries, statues, carvings, swords, crosses, and jewels, led to the museum store and then, finally, to the Egyptian wing.
When no one was looking, I slipped under the fabric rope. Despite the air-conditioning, the dust from thousands of years ago had a sharp enough tang to be noticeable. Perhaps the recent remodeling of the exhibit had released centuries of dust into the air, giving the effect of old things being stirred to life.
The overhead lights were off, but sun came through the large windows and lit up displays as I continued. Tens of thousands of artifacts were housed in a couple dozen rooms, each room focusing on one era. I felt adrift in a black ocean of history, surrounded by little glass boxes that offered fading glimpses of time gone by.
Displays of cosmetics boxes, canopic jars, statues of gods and goddesses, funerary papyrus, and carved blocks from actual temples, all gleaming with hidden stories of their own, captured my attention. It was as if the artifacts were simply waiting for someone to come along and blow the sandstone grit of time from their surfaces.
A sparkling bird caught my attention. I’d never seen it before and wondered if it was part of the new display or just on rotation. The rendering, a beautifully made golden falcon that represented the Egyptian god Horus, was called Horus the Gold.
After finding a cozy corner lit well enough for me to see, I sat with my back against the wall, turning to a blank sheet in my notebook to list all possible majors and major/minor combinations in groupings my parents would approve of. I was matching up my top three choices with their universities when I heard a scrape.
Wondering if a tourist had followed me in, I listened carefully for a few minutes. Nothing. This wing of the museum was as silent as a tomb. Smirking at my own stupid cliché, I went back to my notes and examined a glossy college brochure.
Before I made it through the first page, there was a thumping sound, followed by the same scraping noise. Though I considered myself a rational person, not easily frightened, a chill ran from my scalp down the length of my spine, as if icy fingers were caressing my vertebrae.
I set down my pencil and notebook carefully, trying to not make any sounds of my own, and listened with increasing alarm to the scrapes, scuffs, and distinctly nonhuman groans coming from the other side of the wall. Someone or something was definitely there. Calling forth my sensible mind to dispel my fear, I considered that perhaps the sounds were being made by an animal.
An eerie moan made my hands tremble, and the sight of my shaking fingers steeled me. I was being silly.
“Hello?” I ventured quietly. “Is someone there?”